


Five times Geralt wanted to kiss Regis - and the one time he did

by redDwarf (do_androids_dream)



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Dandelion, Falling In Love, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, M/M, One Shot Collection, Pining, Post-Blood and Wine (The Witcher 3 DLC), Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash, Romance, Vampires, Witcher Contracts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-14
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-12 00:15:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28751274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/do_androids_dream/pseuds/redDwarf
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy
Comments: 40
Kudos: 110





	1. The one time when Geralt was drunk

Dandelion wasn't hard to convince to end the day with some kind of small reunion party. Regis appeared a bit skeptical at first - he didn't, he said, "find much glorious in the event that led to your sojourn in the ducal prison."  
He was right about that, of course. But Geralt was just as ready to put this "sojourn" behind him as the memory of the loss that it had meant. The same was true of Dandelion, who described the negotiations for Geralt's release with Anna Henrietta - who had by no means been softened by grief - as "tough" and "protracted". 

That was probably an understatement, which is why Geralt appreciated the efforts of his two old friends all the more. In the end, they were all glad that the siege of Beauclair had come to an end. Regis was about to follow in Detlaff's footsteps, as he explained. Dandelion was also eager to escape the land ruled by a woman who undoubtedly had a bone to pick with him. In the end, a little booze was the least Geralt could offer them - and he still owned his winery, thanks to the infinite benevolence of the Duchess. In the cellar of which, even if not his own harvest, there were some excellent bottles. 

Corvo Bianco's attendants appeared pleased to see him again. Geralt found this astonishing given the tremendous love of the subjects for their Duchess - and after all, he had been accused of a capital crime. However, it turned out that the news of the witcher's imprisonment in the ducal jail had spread, but not the reason for it. The Touissainters knew the Duchess's mercy as well as her wrath, and it was easy to incur the latter. So the real reason for his absence was not necessarily essential, and his staff's goodness had not changed. 

The three friends found themselves in the comfort of the small salon, equipped with plenty of bottles, cheese, and bread; "indeed everything that a citizen of Touissaint needs," Dandelion proclaimed as if he were one himself. He was, however, used to the good life, but not so much to copious amounts of alcohol - at least not as much as in earlier times. So he was also the first who was no longer entirely in control of his tongue. Although this was something that could never be said of Dandelion. However, Geralt had no idea that Dandelion's tongue, loosened by plenty of wine, was capable of such nonsense that was yet to come.

The moment arrived when the empty bottles on the small table in front of them outnumbered the full ones, and a little game of spin the bottle selected Regis as the next to provide a refill. He didn't mind doing the bidding of the bottle. However, he himself drank extremely little and only out of politeness (and perhaps some nostalgia). Geralt wondered if it was even possible for the vampire to get drunk on ordinary alcohol. However, he had already drunk too much himself to think about it for long. That was the moment of the first strange remark. 

"He's done a lot for you, you know," Dandelion said. 

It wasn't so much what he said, though, but the tone he struck. 

"But you did, too," Geralt replied.

"I did what money and persuasion can do, and I did it because you are my friend."

"Well, I'm obviously Regis' friend, too," Geralt replied, somewhat confused.

Dandelion put his fingertips together in a thoughtful gesture (which he managed only on the second try). 

"But the motive, my friend, the motive," he brought forth. 

"What motive?"

"This is an eggs... an ekcel.... a good question! Have you ever wondered what kind of love relationships vampires engage in? Higher vampires, I mean. Those nasty bruxae and whatever they're all called probably jump at each other all the time."

That was the point at which the conversation became distinctly peculiar. Geralt could easily have pretended not to be able to follow the whole thing anymore - alcohol consumption still had an effect on him, and he hadn't held back that evening. Nevertheless, he was curious to know what the bard was getting at. 

Dandelion pointed at Geralt with a somewhat wavering index finger. 

"What do you think would be an appropriate partner for Regis?"

The question was surprising, and Geralt had to admit that he had never thought about it before. Incidentally, it was not his style to worry about others' love lives - it was actually quite pleasant that Dandelion had become considerably quieter in this regard. He too, though, as he had to admit. 

But as far as Regis was concerned, he was somewhat at a loss. The good guy had his wild times behind him, and as far as previous partnerships were concerned, there had only ever been hints. Not particularly good ones - because those times were closely linked with dark memories. 

"I don't know exactly," he finally admitted. "A woman interested in herbs and medicine, perhaps?"

"A remarkably stupid answer," said the poet, astonishingly unpoetic. "And who says it has to be a woman anyway?"

Geralt shrugged his shoulders. 

"Well, no one, I suppose. Wait a minute..."

Now he looked at Dandelion with narrowed eyes, as if he wanted to tax him from top to bottom.

"You're not saying you're planning to flirt with Regis, are you? Please refrain from such nonsense, Dandelion, and anyway, since when have you been interested in men?"

The bard laughed uproariously until he almost choked. 

"Well, first of all, Geralt," he spoke as he laboriously counted off on his fingers, "I am indeed inclined towards the so-called weaker sex, but it's not as if I don't recognize male attractiveness. I own mirrors, you know."

"And secondly?" growled the witcher, who would have preferred to end the conversation before the vampire returned from the wine cellar. 

"Secondly," Dandelion continued, although he was already holding up three fingers, "do yourself a favor and look the man in the eye."

After that, he just belched, refusing to make any further sense of those words. Regis returned shortly after that with more bottles, which he deftly uncorked with long fingernails. He poured them all after sitting down again, insisting on a toast. Geralt barely listened to the words. It was a surprisingly long speech, although the evening was already so far advanced. At some point, he realized that these were also partly Regis' parting words. 

"... Health, which is especially to be wished to you, Geralt," the vampire said just then. Geralt looked up, glass in hand, and involuntarily did what Dandelion had advised him to do: he looked Regis straight in the eye. Those were remarkable eyes, which did not escape him even in this state. An indescribable color - or rather, an incomprehensible color, because the eyes were iridescent in the light of the pale candlelight that illuminated the room. Light, dark, a mixed tone - it was hard to tell. Was that really the effect of the wine? 

The eyes were young and old at the same time - they carried the wisdom, knowledge, and burden of several centuries, but at the same time a perpetual youthful curiosity. Had Dandelion seen all that in it - and if so, why had he wanted Geralt to see it as well? Regis continued to speak.

"Because, as we all know, you have a special talent for getting yourself into trouble. A talent that even the supposed retirement in such a beautiful country will not bring to a standstill, of that I am sure."

Geralt heard what Regis said without perceiving it. His gaze wandered from his eyes to his mouth, following the movements of his lips without paying much attention to the words. Superficially, these were the lips of a man who had learned to smile in a manner that showed no teeth - in more ways than one. Geralt remembered that he had seen the vampire's real smile only a few hours ago when he had been picked up from prison by the man. He had noticed it because it was as rare as it was dangerous when Regis smiled - especially in the presence of humans. 

He liked that smile, the way the otherwise straight, almost serious lips curled. He liked, he realized with surprise, the movement in the eyes that this smile triggered. Even the little wrinkles around the edges that it created. Briefly, Geralt wondered if he had such a smile himself. Whether there was something about him that someone else might find so attractive? Certainly, there had been times when the answer would have been easy. Those times were over, but wasn't it possible that new times were dawning?

Regis was still talking, and Geralt was still looking at him, suddenly having only one thought. What would it be like to kiss those lips? What would it be like to feel that prominent nose against his cheeks, the skin very close to his? A delicate touch or a tempestuous, masculine attempt of conquest?  
The thoughts of a drunk, Geralt thought with astonishing clarity. And so the moment passed, but the memory remained for a while.


	2. The one time when Geralt was hurt

It started out as a very ordinary contract. So much for retirement - though Geralt had never really believed that he would settle down. A nice (well, somewhat run-down) winery in pleasant surroundings (quite warm, to be honest, and belonging to Nilfgaard after all) notwithstanding. That had been a dream he'd had a long time ago, but that dream had always featured Yennefer. Now it seemed that everything they had ever had was just a dream, and he was neither unhappy nor happy about it. He felt as a witcher should feel - and in the end, he felt nothing. Nothing except a little nostalgia, perhaps. 

In this respect, Corvo Bianco was the start of a new life and less the beginning of his retirement. The world still produced monsters. They seemed to multiply in proportion to the number of witchers still in it - and there were damn few of them. However, had Vesemir ever retired? No one knew how old the man had been when they had taken Ciri in, and the extra years had not made his hair any grayer. But even Vesemir was now only a memory, and Geralt had no interest in living only in memories. He was convinced that he could have both: a new life with the probably hard but quite satisfying work as a vintner (should the estate ever yield a harvest). And also the life as a witcher, which still promised a little extra income. 

Even the administrator of the estate, whom Geralt silently called B.B. because of his long and somehow silly name, had adapted surprisingly quickly to the new owner. The resumption of the herb garden had been his idea. There had been something similar here in earlier times, but B.B. had shown tremendous foresight in suggesting that the garden be replanted with plants that would be suitable for witcher's potions. It had been an interesting challenge to obtain all the plants, and even more so to actually grow them all here. But the first successes were already visible - in a few weeks to months, he would no longer have to procure some of his potion ingredients at overpriced shops in Beauclair. 

Geralt wandered beside the beds and borders, looking at the sprouts and checking the freshly planted seeds. This is something Regis would like, he thought. A garden full of herbs, medicinal and poisonous plants, filled with both native and exotic growths.  
Regis had been gone for quite a while now, in search of his errant friend - perhaps to transition him back into the fold of a community. Geralt did not want to judge the chances of success of this endeavor, but he wondered why he was thinking of Regis now of all times. He hadn't heard from him in months, which was all the more regrettable since it had been just as long since he had even learned that his old friend was still alive. He had found himself observing the flight of the crows lately - as if he half expected them to deliver a message. 

That never happened, and yet since they had parted, Geralt's thoughts had wandered to Regis now and then - usually against his will. Mixed in with these thoughts was the shame that he had thought of this man in a way that he did not think was appropriate. In contrast, there was usually only one distraction, and that was work. There was plenty of work on the vineyard, and not only on his: Touissaint had many pests. Kikimores, archespores, and giant centipedes were just some of the difficulties faced here. 

So he took the contracts as they came, even if he got messages from far away and was on the road for days. It was a life that he was used to, and no one simply broke with old habits. He destroyed the nests of the kikimores that infested some swamps. He found a shaelmaar that kept him busy for two days as it kept retreating to its underground lairs. He did not initially find the giant centipedes, which undoubtedly had to be nearby as well. In fact, he wasn't paid to do so, and decades of experience had taught Geralt that it was pointless to explain complexities like the monster food chain to humans when all they cared about was how to fill their own bellies. 

So he didn't look any further. And yet it was probably habit that made him ride a bit cross-country on the way back instead of following the road, which would undoubtedly have brought him home faster. Maybe it was just instinct or experience, but here he found evidence of the beasts. The overgrown piece of land was sparsely overgrown with young trees; it might have been a field long ago that had been abandoned as part of the monoculture - which people never wanted to hear about - that attracted some monsters. There were holes in the ground, like ditches dug, circular with chunks of earth scattered for miles - like molehills that had grown too large. Only that they had by no means such a harmless cause. 

It was a bit as if man and monster had found together, although neither had really sought the other. Geralt could still have made a different decision. He could have turned around, reported the matter to the local authorities, and waited to see if they were willing to offer the usual reward. He could have done that, but not without finding out how many giant centipedes were involved or even finding proof that they were still here and had not long since moved on. 

So he did what he always did. Regis would have called that "looking around too thoroughly," as if curiosity were one of his traits that were both annoying and admirable. Geralt would not have called it curiosity but professionalism. The area was miles away from the nearest human settlement, so there was no immediate danger. And yet, it was better to get to the root of the evil. Only, in this case, it was instead the other way around. 

Curiosity and expertise could both cause one to become careless. The curious person sometimes took their steps just as carelessly as the person who believed they had the situation under control based on his experience. The monster surprised him, although he noticed the underground movements shortly before. But to determine the direction was almost impossible with the ground's vibrations, and there was no possibility of evasion. Close to him, the beast broke out of the land, hurling earth and rock fragments with it, which covered Geralt with a veritable shower of dirt. 

This one moment of surprise was enough for a small advantage - something that belonged better to the witcher than to the monster, the reason why witchers existed at all. The sword was drawn in an instant, but the monster's elongated abdomen was a weapon all its own. Geralt was hurled through the air like the doll of an angry child. The impact was harder than it should have been - had he had the time to prepare for this fight. Certainly, he was also wearing a potion or two on his body, but that was of little use to him now, because the beast was already at him again - it had dug itself into the ground in a flash, only to reappear and let the next wall of dirt crash down on him. 

The giant centipede's head appeared above him while Geralt was still trying to get up. From then on it was clear to him that the fight was over - but the monster was not aware of that. It presented its most sensitive body part to the witcher, who was anything but defenseless underneath him. The sword shot upwards in a fraction of a second, hitting the soft spot where the head only seemed to merge seamlessly with the writhing body. But the mandibles spewed their devastating venom almost at the same moment, and the witcher, still slightly dazed from his fall, was unable to dodge. The poison hit him, ate through his armor, splattered his face, hit the skin. The dead monster slammed to the ground right next to him, spraying toxic vapor as a final and deadly salute. 

And as he lay there, thoughts dwindling from the force of the poison that was now penetrating his body everywhere, the light also dwindled until the sun above him was only a pale corona burning into his retinas - until that too disappeared.  
When he opened his eyes again, he was no longer lying on the ground in an abandoned and overgrown field. Exactly where he was was hard to say. Geralt's eyes needed some time to adjust to the light, which seemed too bright for him. It danced in narrow stripes before his eyes until he realized that he was looking at a wooden ceiling, sallowly illuminated by candlelight. Instead of the bare earth, there was something halfway soft underneath him, the dubious comfort of a straw mattress. Some hut, someone had found him. But the thought seemed strange, the monster's homestead being so far from a settlement. 

There was a scent that told him he was not alone, although he was only able to stare at the ceiling above him; dark wooden beams that kept blurring before his eyes with the flickering light. At the same time, an acrid smell was fragrant - a very peculiar scent, like a herb garden, which blended in the nose into something of which the brain could not tell whether it was pleasant or not.  
That's impossible, his mind thought, but his eyes said otherwise as a familiar face now bent over him. The eyes with the ineffable, iridescent color looked into his. 

"So, have we decided to give up this little nap and get back to the world of the living?" said Regis. 

It had to be a dream. But Geralt could not remember the last time he had dreamed so vividly: he heard the crackling of firewood, felt the warmth of this fire, and he felt pain. If this was a dream, it was a rather cruel one that did not spare him the feeling of skin scorched with poison. The fumes he had inhaled burned in his lungs, and wanted to be expectorated. The sound from his own throat seemed strange, and already there were hands at his back, cool and strong, gently lifting and supporting his torso as he coughed convulsively and painfully. Dream Regis felt amazingly real. After a while, he gently let him sink back down. 

"A very troublesome poison, my friend. I would like to know why you went into this fight without any precautions. I suppose, even for a witcher, the poison of the giant centipede becomes dangerous, if not deadly, at a certain point. It produces veritable hallucinations, I've heard. No, don't answer; save your vocal cords already. You'll never be a gifted singer like your friend, good old Dandelion. Still, I would think a mute witcher is even scarier to people than an eloquent one."

The vampire uttered his speech in his usual calm, almost reassuring manner - a tone reserved for patients. During all this, he carefully checked some bandages on Geralt's skin, stroked a strand of hair from his face with an almost tender gesture, and finally poured him a sip of a handing liquid that tasted no less disgusting. All this was so real and so clear that the idea that this was a dream seemed increasingly distant to Geralt. And what did he care, in the end? If he was still lying on that field, dying of poison that, with enough preparation, would not have caused him much trouble, it was a mercy of fate to give him that face as the last thing he saw. 

The face was very real and very close to his as if Regis wanted to reassure him with this proximity that he was not alone. That all the pain he felt at that moment would pass because he cared for him. And he looked up into the nondescript eyes, looking at each of the little laugh lines, the graying temples, thinking to himself that the figure Regis had chosen was not only a trustworthy one, but also a thoroughly attractive one. He felt that the poison was still doing its work in him. Perhaps it transfigured his mind; maybe the piercing pain of numerous small wounds befuddled him. And yet, there was no denying that the dream - if it was one - showed him something he wanted to see. That he liked. 

Were these really such sinful thoughts? Was it wrong of him to wish that the mouth above him, those narrow and usually so severe lips, would stop talking? Here and now, Geralt could imagine a completely different activity for those lips. His body did not obey him completely; the poison also had a paralyzing effect. But if it had been possible for him to raise his hand - oh, what a strange dream it was that did not allow him to make this wish a reality. 

To be able to raise his hand, grasp the back of his neck, to press this head even closer to his. So close, until their lips would touch. So close, until the other would feel his breath on his own skin, as he himself perceived every single touch as if it hurt like the wounds. But this would not hurt. This touch would be gentle, the lips would be soft, and when they rested on his, it would be as if something came together that belonged together. When their lips joined, it would be different than ever before. Strange and familiar at the same time. Very different from any other kiss in his life and filled with entirely different feelings. Already he was dreaming of parting lips with his tongue, exploring what lay behind them. But the sounds he heard, the smells he almost tasted on his tongue, the light - everything became paler, everything diminished. It became darker, and although he could still hear Regis talking, he no longer understood him. The light disappeared, and the eyes above him suddenly had a very distinct color. He saw it so clearly, but it was the last thing he saw, and the name of the color was on his tongue and passed away like everything else. At least for a while.


	3. The one time when Geralt was in a brothel

The bed squeaked. It was cliché and oddly fitting in equal measure. Geralt had spent a small fortune on this, but the bed squeaked. 

He had longed to be touched. It had taken him a while to realize it, to admit it to himself. Even a gentle, innocent touch was hard to come by for someone like him - yes, he still felt that way. The only person to lay a hand on him had been the healer he had needed in the past month, which clearly didn't count. Pent-up needs, not just those for a mere gesture, a simple fleeting touch, as they inevitably arose when working alongside one another, had led him here. The unspoken, but at some point no longer suppressible desire for foreign skin, a pleasant smell, perhaps. Ultimately, above all, the need to satisfy the all too human needs of a not quite human body. 

It was a trade like any other, and that's how he looked at it - without sentimentality, without shame. He seemed to be looking at himself from the outside, and perhaps he was thinking a little too hard about all this, although he was here to do precisely no thinking. Maybe his movements were a little too mechanical, a bit too focused on achieving exactly what he had come for in the end. It made no difference. The woman below him reacted just as mechanically - that was what her customers expected. She imitated his movements, came up to meet him, or held still, just as she perceived him. 

As expected, she was good at this game of friction and tension. The woman was blonde; her long, loose hair looked almost golden in the candles' glow. In this area, real blondes were rare, and thus their services more expensive. It was almost ridiculous that his touch of nostalgic guilt cost him so much, but as far as that went, he probably just couldn't get out of his skin. At least her steel-blue eyes didn't remind him of anyone; at least her face - pretty as it might be - was meaningless. 

If the mistress of this somewhat exclusive brothel had been taken aback by his strictness regarding this request, she had not let on. But she was well practiced in that. Geralt had been asked about his preferences right at the entrance, and he had brusquely said, "As long as she's not black-haired or red."  
He hadn't even glanced at the waiting ladies. The headmistress had looked at him, a professional, almost wise look, and she had replied without batting an eye, "We can accommodate the more outlandish requests."  
A discreet gesture had forced him to look up and notice that among the whores were by no means only women. Geralt had also not moved a muscle and calmly answered that the ordinary offering was enough for him. 

Should he think about why she had made this suggestion? Was there anything written on his face that he didn't know about or didn't want to admit to himself? For a moment, his movements slowed down, the wooden frame gave a final cawing sound, and he stared at the woman underneath him as if she knew the answer to an unspoken question. But she did not utter a question either.  
She looked up at him, put a hand on his chest, and softly said, "It' s alright, let me do it."  
The blonde gave him a gentle push, and he didn't resist; he just let himself fall on his back, letting her do the work. 

She did so with the professional seriousness of her trade, and the bed resumed its ridiculous squeaking. Geralt put his hands on the woman's hips, almost as if he needed more physical contact to stay in the here and now. And yet, he watched her rocking body above him with a strange detachment. Geralt looked at her red-tinged, slightly parted lips, through which, despite all her efforts, no sound penetrated, as if she sensed that he was not interested. It occurred to him that he was longing for something else, not just this - a kiss, a soft or even not so gentle touch of lips on his. Most whores refused this unless the price was right, but an ordinary service it was not. He understood the reason quite well. What they were doing here was pure libidinal gratification. He could have done it alone, but that eventually lost its appeal. Besides, it required the sometimes exhausting evocation of a trigger. Which, admittedly, was rarely fair to the person who involuntarily found himself in such daydreams - even if she (or he) had no idea. 

But how much more intimate was a kiss. When mouths met, it was rarely mere carnal desire. A kiss could be so many things: a prelude, a game, a promise. An exchange of endearments. The assurance of real feelings. So much more than skin meeting skin. Yes, Geralt understood why the whores didn't agree to this - they wanted to keep this one area all to themselves. This one feeling was not meant to be shared. He looked at the woman, perceiving everything about her very carefully. The drops of sweat on her naked skin. The hint of perfume, slowly overlaid by the unmistakable smell of sex. The sound when their two bodies touched. Feelings, smells, sounds that should trigger something; that should turn him on. They did - albeit on a purely physical level - and Geralt realized that he was missing something completely different. 

He was there, and he was not. He didn't have to do anything, not even put his hands to use; he didn't have to touch anything, just be touched. Yet he wanted to encounter, wanted to feel skin. Just a face, maybe - just the gentle touch of a face between his hands. Once more, he looked up at those cherry-red lips. He could buy his share of those lips, could let himself be touched by them if he asked for it, but not in the way he longed for. The woman above him said nothing and asked nothing; she didn't care if he did anything or not. She worked, she worked him, and sooner or later, she would succeed. And yet, he would not get what he actually wanted. How simple it was - just a kiss. But it wasn't quite that easy. He had lost every person in his life whose kiss had ever meant anything to him. But he hadn't lost the memory, not this time: hadn't forgotten what it felt like, from the first tentative touch to the passionate play of tongues.  
Strange as it might seem, he had kissed so many times, and it had still been something sacred each time. Oh, he'd had a lot of sex too, no doubt - and he'd liked it, every time - but a kiss was like a safe haven. A haven of peace, a home. Coming home, even if you were a restless wanderer.

The blonde sped up, her right hand running along his thigh until she touched him where their bodies met. Oh yes, she knew what she was doing, and Geralt closed his eyes - also to avoid looking at the over-red lips. That didn't help at all. It was much easier to block out the sounds and smells in the darkness of his own self. At the same time, the lips had already burned too much into his retinas - he could still see them, with his eyes closed. Only they were no longer so red. They were no longer so full. They were more narrow, half-serious, half with a small, implied smile at the corners. A smile that was never allowed to become too wide. With closed eyes, thrown back on himself, he almost felt like in his dream again.

Geralt had not forgotten the dream, but he had repressed it. He had lain in that field for perhaps a day, completely out of it, until an eccentric nobleman, whose passion was collecting extraordinary mushroom varieties, had found him by pure chance. After this experience, the man had considered himself some kind of chosen hero. He had told his story to the next best bard in the town he had brought Geralt - new silly songs for the next decade, that was for sure. After all, out of sheer generosity, the man had also paid the healer. After all, it had been a happy ending. And after a while, Geralt had been convinced that it had been rather a hallucination than a dream, triggered by the toxic fumes. There were virtually no records of such incidents because usually, no one lived long enough to talk about them. In response to his vague hints, the healer had remarked that it was quite possible hallucinations triggered by strong drugs could produce feelings that felt extremely real. 

But if his feelings had been just a hallucination, why was he seeing those lips again now? Why could he imagine precisely how this mouth twisted into a smile; only very slightly. Rarely was there mockery in this smile, preferably a hint of irony. Never superiority, but eloquence. Modesty, despite the knowledge (and the burden) of centuries. Did he really ask himself why those thoughts did not vanish? He knew why. The truth lay there, in this darkness, in what he kept hidden from himself. He didn't want it to be a dream or a hallucination. But how would it ever be possible for this to become real? Within him was the hesitant question of whether he should even allow himself to think that thought. But his body was one step ahead of him.

All the tension of past days was looking for an outlet, and the woman above him had found her rhythm. She touched him, and his thoughts became a wish. She leaned forward, her hair brushing his bare shoulders, almost as if lips were touching him, and the wish became a desire. She whispered something in his ear, the very last catalyst. The release came in waves, and the desire became real. A single thought, a single name. His lips opened slightly, but there was no sound. The name was only in his mind, like the lips, the mouth, the eyes. The color. He knew the color. It was his secret. 

Geralt opened his eyes, and for a brief moment, the color was everywhere, and he smiled.


	4. The one time when Geralt was on a hunt

The wolf's fur had been stripped off, just as if someone had peeled an orange with a large knife: the top layer was separated, down to the skin underneath. But while the fruit's skin was white and nearly smooth, the muscles and tendons of the animal were exposed. Yet, they had lost their color - all blood had left the dead body. Someone had not only peeled this orange but also sucked it dry. 

Neither witcher senses nor superior intuition was needed to find out the cause of this brutal attack. This was the act of a vampire and not an incredibly subtle one. Especially in Touissaint, there were quite a few bloodsuckers, and even the less rational among them had kept a low profile for quite a while after the Beauclair debacle. But the lowest of the numerous vampire species that this fairy-tale land of all places attracted had to hunt to survive - and so Geralt had to go on a hunt, too. Not because it was about a wolf; it would hardly be missed in the food chain, and no farmer cried a tear for it. But the wolf was not the first victim, and a trail of blood began to run through the area. The fear that a sheep, a cow, a child would be the next target was not a groundless dread. 

The result of the latest assault was almost too elegant for an ekimma. Still, such an animal was hardly a challenge for their kind. A fleder was also a possibility, a katakan less so. Perhaps even a garkain, those disgusting beasts were to be trusted to everything. Geralt knelt beside the skinned wolf, whose remnants of its tongue hung out of its mouth as if the animal had tried to take a desperate breath at the last moment. He looked at the shape of the bloodstains that had landed on the ground from the force of the attack - remains that the vampire had not bothered to lick up from the ground. Then he carefully observed the body, which had virtually no other wounds inflicted - the shock of skinning alive alone would instantly kill many beings. Impossible to say whether the wolf had been still alive when the monster had feasted on its blood. When the corpse had been found, it had already been dead for at least two days, and what was left of it now - and that was not much - was mere food for the maggots.

Maybe, in the end, it didn't matter quite so much what subspecies of vampire had done this. Whatever it was, there was a remedy for it: a silver sword, a special oil, and the witcher's experience. For one thing was clear: this had been done by a monster that would not stop anytime soon because its hunger would not just stop either. 

It had been pretty quiet for a while after Geralt had returned to Touissaint. A certain restlessness had taken possession of him, which could be contained at least temporarily by the one or other call from distant surroundings. He carefully avoided getting involved in local skirmishes, even if his (in this case dubious) reputation occasionally led to requests for his help. So he only accepted contracts where his sharpened senses were of use, even if they did not always involve monsters in the conventional term.

His roaming was a temporary calming of troubled senses he did not want to deal with, and the fickle weather of the north a welcome change from the heat of the south. Geralt himself was all the more surprised that the return to Corvo Bianco had finally felt like a homecoming. The only home he had ever known had been a drafty old fortress in the mountains, as cold as the memories associated with it. Here, however, he was greeted by heavy, sweet air, drenched in flowery scents; a sky far too blue; and sunsets as unreal as if a fairy godmother had painted them on the horizon. Surprisingly, he found that he liked it. This little house (which could still desperately use some renovations), the herb garden, the wine cellar, and the people around: it was home. 

Geralt rose with one last look at the carcass and followed the barely visible trail of carelessly spilled drops of blood, dried and hardened, on the grass with his eyes. Someone had taken the mouth too full, drunk more than his fill, and disappeared into the adjacent forest, not without leaving traces behind - albeit ones that, after a few days, were only visible to Geralt's special abilities. He glanced at the lush green expanse of tall, slender trees to the north, knowing that hardly any vampires actually cared about a forest. So something had to lie behind it, or deep in it: caves perhaps, or an abandoned graveyard of a former settlement. Maybe it was quite banal monster nests that attracted the interest of this beast.

Whatever it was, it was only a temporary residence. If this monster was indeed alone - which was only to be hoped - instinct and hunger would drive it on and on. These were the hunting grounds of settlements not too far away. If there was a hunter of a different kind hanging around here, who took too much advantage of the local game, it would become a matter for the duchess sooner or later. Something that the villagers had obviously wanted to avoid, for whatever reason (one of which might be that she might not have known about them hunting - but he would not interfere, certainly not when it came to the duchess). And he couldn't wait until it actually became an assignment that came from Anna Henrietta herself - because too much valuable time would pass before then. Geralt would rather incur her wrath for pretending not to have known about the possibly illegal machinations of the local population than to once again be partially responsible for the death of a human being.

Therefore, he followed the tracks, old and dry as they might be, with some determination. The sun, which had seemingly been at its zenith a moment ago, had moved on, and the light had changed from glowing brightness to an auspicious bright yellow that would soon herald early evening. Between the tall and dense trees, the heat was noticeably less. The trail had eventually dried up, but a characteristic scent had remained, the last remnant of bloodlust mixed with a slightly foul stench. Geralt remained hesitant for a moment. This smell could mean two things: either the vampire was not too far away, or... there was another slain animal. Or worse. But he had to be sure before he prepared himself with potions for the inevitable fight. 

The smell implied a westerly direction, which was kind of relieving - there, the forest just spread out a lot further until it finally hit the Sansretour river. No settlements. But caution was still advised, so Geralt followed the smell, which became stronger and stronger; so intense and heavy that it almost hung in the air like a visible veil. The foliage grew thicker and darker, and Geralt was now miles from any path or other hint of civilization. Not difficult to imagine that this part of the forest, which was now also increasingly difficult to walk through, hid numerous things that preferred the comparative gloom and coolness.  
The smell was very close now, but it was still overlaid with other things, so it was uncertain if this was pure rot or something alive hiding here. While Geralt pushed aside some branches and squeezed through the undergrowth, he drew the silver sword - quite laboriously because of the increasingly narrow forest. 

What awaited him was so surprising that he was numb for a moment. It wasn't the small clearing behind the dense thicket, only dimly illuminated by slowly fading sunlight, that made him hesitate in amazement. Even the roughly dissected body of a deer, skinned like the wolf but much more recently, lying on the forest floor - bloodless and already covered with flies - did not astonish him much. The game had been killed in greater haste, as if the monster had been disturbed; it lay in a puddle of its own blood, already dried - testimony to the fact that the vampire had not had time for this tidbit. 

However, neither the location of the incident nor the apparent act was of any concern at this moment. For besides the carcass knelt an all too familiar figure. And there was another undertone of smell that mingled with all this, with the corruption and the blood: the gentle, but somehow also penetrating scent of herbs. There sat Regis, who now looked up from his obvious inspection of the dead animal and glanced at Geralt. 

"Seems to me we can check off another item on the list of unexpected encounters," Regis said as he stood up, wiping his hands on a cloth pulled from a bag, casually hanging over his shoulder.

"Seems like it to me, too," Geralt replied one - or two - heartbeats later.  
He caught himself surprisingly quickly and added, "So, you're back."

It was an odd place and time for this question, but Regis didn't even flinch. 

"Keenly observed, my friend. And apparently on the same track as you."

He pointed casually at the carcass at his feet, and Geralt frowned, suddenly nearly alarmed. 

"Wait, you don't think..."

Regis looked at him and fell silent for a moment. It was hard to tell what was in that look - a trace of guilt, a hint of unspoken thought, perhaps. 

"Let's just say that I wanted to clear up at least some doubt. I admit I lost sight of Dettlaff at some point in my travels. This is probably not the right place, and it's not the right moment for this story - but this much will become clear to you when you look at the unfortunate creature: it certainly wasn't his doing."

"Certainly not."

Geralt knelt down next to the skinned deer, and after a brief examination, found his assumption confirmed - it seemed to be the work of the same vampire, but definitely of a lower species. 

"Has my unexpected appearance troubled you, my friend?" asked Regis after a while. Geralt glanced up at him in surprise.

"What makes you think that?"

"Well, your heartbeat seems a little faster than usual, if I may say so."

"You must be mistaken," Geralt lied without any qualms. 

He didn't look at his old friend as he did so, preferring to focus on his treacherous bodily functions to bring them back under control. No doubt Regis' _unexpected appearance_ had an effect on him - though not the implied one. It was not only a surprising sight, but it was also a more than pleasing one - and at the same time one he could not feast on too clearly. Not here and now, and perhaps never. But one thing Geralt had learned by now: he would enjoy the moment, no matter if there was ever a prospect of a second one. No matter if deep inside, he hid wishes that might never be allowed to come true. It was enough that Regis was back, that he was here, close to him, for whatever reason. 

"Well, what do you think?" asked Regis at some point after Geralt had already paid more attention to the carcass than necessary. 

What did he think? Much more than he dared to say. Much more than Regis should hear. Was allowed to hear. More than he knew himself. Complicated thoughts, but actually quite simple. Flashes of memories attached to feelings that he wouldn't even have words to explain. But a small, a tiny piece of truth was allowed.

"I was just thinking that it's good that you're back," Geralt replied, and that wasn't a lie, but it wasn't the whole truth either. 

A familiar smile twitched across Regis'mouth, held back out of habit, even in this deserted setting and this company.

"I meant about the deer."

"Not quite sure. An ekimma, possibly."

Regis cocked his head to one side, a customary gesture of almost aristocratic thoughtfulness, and retorted, "Pesky things. But yes, possible."

"Surprising how you speak of your distant relatives," Geralt said with a subtle grin as he scanned the area for more tracks. This deer had been torn no more than a day ago. The trail was fresh; he only needed to follow it.  
Regis slightly contorted his face, wrinkling his nose - this gesture was also familiar, but Geralt found that he liked it. The smile did not leave his face right away.

"Distant is the keyword, my dear. Garkains may be at the bottom of the pecking order, but I assure you, ekimmas don't exactly have many friends either."

"So you think it might have been one, too?"

"It's not unlikely, but we won't know anything more specific unless we follow the trail."

"We? Have you been hired as a monster hunter lately, too?"

Regis took the mocking undertone calmly. He shrugged his shoulders.

"I have no intention of disputing your reward, of course, my friend. Let's just call it professional interest. Now that we have found each other again, we can also look for the cause of this bloodshed together. However, I will not interfere, I assure you. The hunting instinct is, as unfortunate as it seems, completely normal for this kind of vampire. They couldn't turn it off even if they had enough sense to understand why they follow it."

Geralt had no arguments against it - it was the truth, but few people liked to hear this truth, no matter what monster it was about. The very idea that there were rational monsters was beyond their comprehension. That most of the others hunted to survive and that this could not be driven out of them like from the animals that humans had domesticated centuries ago did not interest them.  
So Geralt followed the tracks to do what needed to be done, and he enjoyed the unexpected company. They moved silently through the undergrowth. The opportunity would come when they would talk about Regis' experiences, Geralt hoped. 

The tracks thickened. The vampire had become careless, or hastier, hungrier? It was not difficult to follow him, and, in the end, not challenging to find him. After some time, other traces became visible: the remains of an abandoned homestead of an entirely different kind, barely visible in the dense greenery but unmistakable to Geralt's eyes. 

"Elven ruins," Regis said quietly, almost in wonder. 

Geralt glanced at him. There was something else he liked. This very special vampire, on whose shoulders rested several hundred years, filled with experiences, was still capable of discovering things for the first time. Figuratively speaking, of course - the number of elven sites that Regis might have seen, Geralt couldn't even imagine, and certainly not just ruins.  
He just saw things and admired them for what they were or had once been. The latter especially, probably, because even from this former glory, nothing more remained than old, overgrown stones and the gaping entrance to an underground hiding place.

"That clearly indicates an ekimma," Geralt said as he put away the sword he had been holding all this time for a moment to reach for his potions. He didn't have much with him - Roach was standing far away from here, it wasn't possible to lead her through all this grove. But he had the most important thing with him. He intended not to let the beast get close enough to hurt him, but this was an effective weapon if it did. Regis watched him silently as he uncorked the small vial with his teeth, spat the cork into the grass, and swallowed the content.

"Shall I accompany you?" he asked in his calm, solemn tone, his eyes almost sternly directed at Geralt.

The latter looked back in surprise, puzzled by the seriousness of this question. There seemed to be more than the usual friendly concern in it. But this might be imagination, caused not only by carefully tucked away feelings but also by his senses exaggerated by the potion. So he just shook his head, drew the sword again, and replied as calmly as he could, "Honestly, I hope I don't need you. Your healing skills, I mean."

If Regis somehow saw through the double meaning of those words, he didn't let on; he tersely noted that he would wait here - after all, a vampire killed, however lowly his kind, was not a pleasant experience, despite everything that had happened in Beauclair.

In the end, things turned out differently than expected.  
The senses of the ekimma - for it really was one - were also sharpened, and presumably, it had been aware of them for a long time. The beast suddenly rushed out of the half-buried entrance like an ominous storm, nothing but claws and a sinewy mass, the ghastly grimace wide open to present the vast teeth. It narrowly missed the witcher, who just barely moved to the side with a deft lunge. Regis instantly retreated, no longer visible from one moment to the next but undoubtedly still nearby. But one thing was clear: it was better not to stand between a witcher and his prey, especially not when the first was high on potions, which could become at least unpleasant even for a higher vampire. 

Geralt noticed one thing above all in a split second: he saw the reason for the creature's overflowing hunger before him. He began to circle the beast, which was trying to demonstrate strength with hissing sounds and bloated cheeks. The ekimma was injured; a long, oozing wound gaped at its abdomen. It was actually impossible: one of these monsters' most terrifying features was their incredible regenerative ability, which they shared with far too many specimens of the vampire species. Geralt went through the few possibilities in his mind, some of which he immediately discarded: magic, another witcher, another vampire... But the most obvious solution - and he had learned to recognize those - was probably a mistake of nature— a mutation. So now mutant and mutant faced each other, what irony. 

Whatever it was, it drove the vampire mad, increased his hunger through instincts that told him his body was craving something, but ultimately could not satisfy it. Whatever it was, it was an advantage for Geralt. And that's why the fight was short. Claws met metal, but not skin. The vampire's incredible speed was a challenge, though not a new one. Geralt's signs prevented the monster from immaterializing, which only made it more ferocious - deprived of another ability. The sword, soaked with an oil that only made his injuries more painful, struck again and again. The smell that now filled the air was that of a wounded animal, and the ekimma fought the same way. But ferocity alone was no match for a determined witcher. 

So the fight was brutal, wild, and disgusting, but also quite short. Still, even such fights come now and then to a point where the tide can turn - and there seemed to be such a turning point for a moment. A sideways movement too slow, an outstretched arm that should have been bent - what it was, in the end, didn't matter. Geralt slipped, and seconds later, found himself on his back, the monster above him, not wanting to let this advantage pass. It might be wounded and unable to regenerate, but that didn't make it any less dangerous. The air condensed; it seemed to tense up, filled with an unearthly hum. 

Geralt's hand formed the sign faster than his mind could comprehend, and the blast of fire hit the monster full force in the hideous muzzle. A high, screeching sound rang out, but even burned and disfigured, the ekimma did not retreat. But this moment was enough. Even lying down, the witcher was not defenseless, and the sword shot up, severing the head as if in a dream, as if all this were as unrealistic as an evil fairy tale. The body took a heartbeat longer to realize it was defeated - then the twitching stopped just as the heart stopped beating. The remains fell backward, staining the ground with slimy blood. 

Geralt did not rise immediately. He remained lying, staring upward at the increasingly dark sky, while a silent internal inventory confirmed that he had survived all this without a scratch. But he was not the only one that needed to be convinced of this. Suddenly it was clear why the air had indeed condensed, because it did so again, directly above him, until it was no longer just air, but Regis' face. The latter's eyes - was there concern in them? - looked down at him, and he couldn't help but think that now that he had a word for that color, he would see it everywhere. Even the green of the forest around him, even the gray of the old stones, the brown of the tree barks, or the pale dark blue of the sky took on this one color. How peculiar. 

"Are you well?"

And the voice, a sound that followed him even into his dreams, was everywhere, too. A voice that always gave an exceptional sound to its well-chosen words. And the words came out of that mouth, very close above his own now. So close that he only had to straighten up to get what he had been longing for some time. He still wanted it, now even more than ever. Because as he lay there, amazed at his intactness, he realized that Regis' return meant much more. That he tied into it the vague hope that this time, he would stay. Geralt had found a home in Touissaint, but now he realized that his heart had also found a home. In Regis, even if the latter had no idea of it. But here and now was not the right time. And maybe it never came, and perhaps it didn't matter. 

Instead of reaching for the mouth, he just reached for the outstretched hand.  
  
"Nothing happened to me," he answered simply, and that was a lie, a big one even.


	5. The one time when Geralt was really close to the kiss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all of your comments, I've of course seen them all! Stay tuned, the kiss can't be far now...
> 
> The lyrics mentioned in this chapter are by [@deagle,](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deagle/pseuds/deagle) thank you very much - also for immediately falling in love with the whole thing, although I kept it a secret for a while.

The "Chameleon" was packed. Stale air lay heavy in the room, filled with the smell of spilled beer, numerous not well-matching perfumes, and plenty of pent-up horniness. Add to that the noise of what must have been 50 or more women and men jabbering. That would soon end - already the sound of lute strings in tuning mingled with the din of clinking mugs, chattering voices, and the odd disagreement. In short, the whole place was a madhouse, and Geralt could see from the sparkle in Dandelion's eyes that he was enjoying it beyond all measure. 

Geralt was able to block out the noise and stench to some extent and see the hustle and bustle for what it was: a welcome diversion on his way back. It might be sentimentality that drove him so far north every now and then - even if he thought it was another feeling he was not entitled to. But at least when he was here, he enjoyed the company of old friends. 

He and Dandelion stood at the slightly elevated bar, from which there was a good view over the crowd and eventually to the small stage further ahead. There, unperturbed by the audience, Priscilla tuned her lute. She sat there alone on a stool, a small colorful figure, like a delicate bird on a branch - the kind that many would have liked to close their protective hand around. But once this particular bird would begin to sing, the crowd would devour out of her hand, not the other way around. 

Geralt glanced at Dandelion, whose face seemed flushed not only from the exuberant heat in the bulging room. He seemed to regard Priscilla with pride - which was amazing, considering that it had basically been a rivalry that had brought them together. That he let her take the stage in the first place was only proof of his affection. But there was more in his face. 

"I never thought I'd see you settled down one day," Geralt couldn't help but say.

"Says the man with the retirement winery in Touissaint," was the arrow-quick reply.

Slowly the audience quieted as the first delicate notes of the instrument sounded from the stage. Nevertheless, Dandelion had averted his gaze from there for a moment, now regarding Geralt attentively - in such a way that the latter had the urgent feeling of holding on to his mug. He knew that look, and he had a distinct impression that Dandelion was about to say something stupid. Or something he wouldn't want to hear. One did not exclude the other.

"You know," the bard began, and Geralt was already rolling his eyes inwardly. However, outwardly, he remained quite calm, looking thoughtfully at his beverage, which was presumably supposed to represent beer - though Dandelion seemed to have surprisingly little idea about it. Or his innkeeper. 

"You know, even long-standing enmity - let alone friendship - can turn into something new."

Geralt turned to look Dandelion in the eye. 

"That much is clear, I suppose," he replied with a small smile - for the far bigger smile on his friend's face was a clear sign now, as the first words of the song rang out. Surprisingly, Dandelion shook his head.

"I'm not talking about me for once."

"What?"

The poet sighed theatrically and pointed forward toward Priscilla.

"Why are you so convinced you can't have something like that, too?"

The witcher snorted.

"So by that logic, I could march into Vizima and ask the emperor of Nilfgaard for a tryst, do you think?"

Dandelion's eyes widened for a moment, almost in shock; then he burst out laughing - albeit a somewhat muffled one, so as not to disturb the wonderful melody that sounded from the stage. 

"If that is truly your wish," he replied. "However, I had another old acquaintance in mind."

"Dandelion..."

"Oh, stop it. How old are you now? One hundred something?"

"Close," growled Geralt. 

Restrained sobbing could now be heard in the crowd, as the artist had already moved on to the next song — a familiar melody, at which Geralt's face contorted. Dandelion immediately responded.

"You see, exactly what I mean. All it takes is any simple song, and you're convinced that your oh-so tragic past is preventing any kind of future."

"That's hardly just _any_ song," Geralt replied, slightly snarky. "I don't think you'd find it much fun either if every other ragamuffin were singing about your romantic adventures."

"Well, at least he'd have something to sing about," the bard replied glibly. "And yet it would only be a song, and I'd know what I had in what I have today instead of dwelling on unnecessary guilt."

The melody swelled, and Priscilla's fine voice now filled the room with such attraction that there was almost complete silence all around. It was not hard to imagine what Dandelion liked about her (though a little harder to imagine what it was the other way around).

"You are allowed to love no matter what you think," the bard continued, unusually serious. "And, imagine, even whom you want."

With these words, he jumped up, "My cue," he added, grinning broadly, and disappeared in the direction of the stage.

Geralt remained behind, knuckles white around the mug, wondering if anything about him was actually so treacherous. Some time had passed since their last meeting, and at the time, he had thought Dandelion's words were mostly those of a drunk. Perhaps it was the bard's much-vaunted subtlety and knowledge of human nature, rather than any subliminal radiation on Geralt's part, that had put Dandelion on the right track. If that was the case, he had to admit his friend had not landed a random strike. 

The crowd inevitably became louder when the famous bard entered the stage. Tears bashfully wiped from numerous eyes because of the previous performance were quickly forgotten as Dandelion - of all things - kicked off with one of his possibly raunchy songs. 

_You hold me tight, I sigh my creed  
And with bound eyes, I let you lead  
I feel familiar palms caress  
And with a whisper, I confess_

In fact, it sounded more like a love song than something meant to fire up the crowd. But the way that was sung somehow sounded to Geralt like a challenge. Especially when it came to the second verse:

_Take in my body as a whole  
Shock me, tease me  
Rock me, please me  
Rekindle old sparks inside my soul_

Old sparks... those were not old sparks, he realized that now. It was a new fire that burned within him — partly known. Because spell or not, it wasn't that Geralt had not already encountered love. It wasn't that he did not know how it would feel when it met him. At the same time, much of it was new, and like anything new, it was strange, exciting, and scary. 

The song's third verse began, now much more raunchy than before, and the audience went wild with amusement. But Geralt blanked out everything: the music, the singing, the crowd. Everything condensed into a single thought. He had admitted something to himself, namely that he harbored feelings he neither had to nor wanted to be ashamed of. He was entitled to have these feelings. But not to keep them to himself forever, even if they would never be reciprocated. 

Almost as if in a dream, he let go of the mug and took a step, and a moment later he was standing at the door, not knowing how he had gotten there. Then he was outside, and he realized that it was night, but he was already calculating how long the journey would take if he left immediately. Finally, somehow, sometime, he was in front of the city gate and mounted the horse he had just led by the reins. 

During the long ride back to Touissaint, Geralt had plenty of opportunities to indulge his thoughts. What would he say? How to start a conversation about a topic that would undoubtedly blow the other person's mind? It had been hard enough to admit his feelings to himself; how could he do that to Regis? What would that do to their friendship? And, ultimately, an even more pressing question: how would he find Regis in the first place?

They hadn't talked much. In fact, after their last meeting, they had both been in a strange mood. In any case, Geralt had felt Regis had become introspective, which probably had to do with the slain vampire and the remembrance of unresolved matters with Dettlaff. They had parted with kind words, even a hug, and assurances that they would see each other again soon. But where was Regis now? He couldn't wander around homeless forever or live in an old graveyard like some cliché made flesh. 

Nevertheless, that was precisely the place where Geralt first looked for him. Mère-Lachaiselongue near Beauclair, however, lay just as deserted as appropriate for a small cemetery that hardly anyone stopped by. There was simply no one left  
who had known the people buried here. Nothing to find here but old gravestones that would neither look creepy in the southern sun nor in the balmy Touissainter nights. And no sign of life except birds, the odd rat, and countless worms that no doubt found nothing left under this earth to compost. 

The tomb was empty as if it had been only a temporary residence anyway. For a crazy moment, Geralt was on the verge of asking the crows in the treetops above him about the vampire's whereabouts - or, what would have been just as strange but possibly more promising, asking them to bring him a message.  
He discarded this thought and set off for his winery, both relieved and disappointed: relieved that he still had a grace period in which to sort out his thoughts; disappointed because he couldn't immediately get rid of everything that had been on the tip of his tongue for days. 

Filled with thoroughly contradictory feelings, he finally reached Corvo Bianco. The sight of the courtyard, house and gardens, even the empty vineyards, caused the familiar comfort of coming home, and he realized that he had missed all that. And even more that he didn't want to leave again so quickly. Would it be so bad to actually pretend for a while that it was possible, even for a witcher, to enjoy some retirement? 

Even Roach seemed to greet the small stable he had provided and repaired for her with special joy. Filled with strange satisfaction, the witcher approached the house; strode up the steps as if he were coming this way for the first time - only to pause at their top as if frozen. 

"Did I manage to surprise you this time?" asked Regis, who was sitting there on the wooden bench in front of the house, his legs casually crossed, a small booklet beside him in which he must have been reading a moment ago. The afternoon sun cast a strangely colored glow on the vampire's pale skin so that - without suspecting it - he now resembled an ordinary human as much on the outside as he had always tried to do in his endeavors. 

The sight made Geralt's heart stumble for a second. A strange feeling occurred in him as if he could take a glimpse into the future. A precognition that seemed as improbable as a dream, but somehow more like deja-vu. He felt as if he were coming up those steps for the umpteenth time and seeing that very man sitting in that very spot. It was a familiar, exhilarating sight, whether he was returning from arduous farm work or the far more arduous hunt for monsters. He would sit there, usually with a book, sometimes with some notes, and if this were not the case, he would find him in the cellar in any case, brooding over vials and potions even more peculiar than his own.

And when Geralt would come home, Regis would stand up, put a hand on his shoulder and make a remark that - depending on how he looked - would sound slightly ironic, reassuring, or worried. And Geralt would always have an answer for him, and it would always be honest - and in most cases, the response would be nothing but a kiss, into which he would put all that he could not or would not express. 

He had never been exceptionally talented at controlling his face when it came to his emotions. All the protective walls reserved for many, many incidents of the past had always crumbled when something touched him deeply. He knew the last time that had happened, yet this time he could think of Yennefer without feeling bad. He could acknowledge what they had had without wondering if he had ever deserved it. If it had ever been true or real. He could let the past be the past and try to make this dreamlike future a reality. At least he had to try. 

"You look like you've seen a ghost," Regis said. "Which, I must admit, wouldn't be particularly unusual. But what kind of ghost would impress you so much that you'd stand there like you'd been struck by lightning?"

Now Regis actually stood up, and the stumbling heartbeat stopped before it stumbled on. For he stood there like the figure of his premonition come true, just as he had probably imagined him a hundred times before. The look from Regis' eyes was curious, as it almost always was, even if there was the question in it why Geralt behaved so oddly. Regis took a step toward him, and the strange paralysis passed, and Geralt also took a step. One more, maybe two, and he need only stretch out his hand. Another to reach for the other's hand, to pull him close and reveal to him how amazing it was that he had secretly expected him to be here. Even when he had looked for him elsewhere, even when he had wondered how to find him, there had probably always been a certainty deep inside him that Regis would find him. And that he would probably strike at just the right time to do so. 

He opened his mouth to reveal that he wanted to tell him something, that there was something important he wanted to talk to him about. But did he have to do it with words? Now they were standing so close to each other that each could feel the other's heartbeat, and if they both used their abilities, they could each perceive much more. Geralt found that he wanted to. Even if he didn't say anything, he didn't have to hold anything back. He could open up, and everything about him would radiate what he felt. 

Then, he would really reach out his hand, but he would touch that finely cut face with it, let his fingers stroke the hirsute cheeks, gently lift the chin, and finally do what he had wanted to do for so long. He kept looking at Regis' mouth in front of him, just a hand's breadth away, and he sensed that the moment had come to speak up. No, not to speak, not at all. Regis' look had something questioning, and Geralt had the answer. 

Finally, he leaned forward slightly, stretching out his hand. 

At that moment, someone tramped hastily up the steps, huffing and puffing, and a voice called out, "Master Witcher! Quick! You need to help us!"


	6. ... and the one time he did

In the blink of an eye, the moment was over. As if a sudden blow to the pit of his stomach had robbed him of his breath, Geralt found himself at a loss for words - and whether he would summon up the courage again was uncertain. Regis' eyes were still looking at him with that slightly questioning gleam, but he tore himself away and turned around. 

There stood a young man, out of breath and sweating, heated equally by the temperature and by a long run. Long brown hair clung to a featureless face with only one striking feature: the almost pleading look with which he gazed at the witcher. 

"Sir," he said, gasping for breath like a fish out of water, slightly bent over, his hands on his knees - he must have been running long, far, and, above all, very fast. 

"Master witcher," he began again. 

"What happened?" 

Geralt was amazed at how calm his voice sounded. 

"The monster. It's back."

"Take a deep breath and speak more slowly. What monster?"

"The village. The elder sent me. A dog," the young man gasped, and he began to cough as if it would cost him his lungs to have started this errand in such haste. 

Regis stepped up beside Geralt and said, his tone equally soothing and firm,   
"Inhale through the nose, count slowly to four, exhale through the mouth, count to eight."

It was an odd instruction, but it seemed like valuable expert advice, for the stranger did as instructed. However, Geralt regarded him with growing impatience while the man slowly straightened up, his face still flushed, but now with a more alert look.

"You were with us before the last full moon, sir. A beast had torn a wolf, you remember?"

Geralt frowned. 

"And so?"

"You said the beast would cause us no more trouble, but this morning, the hunter's only dog lay outside the village, torn and disemboweled. Just as it had been with the other animals, sir."

Geralt brushed Regis with a look, confirming a mutual knowledge that needed no words: this was impossible. They had burned the remains, head and body separately; this vampire would not return, guaranteed. The young man had to be mistaken.

"A bear, perhaps?" suggested Geralt, still calm. 

A shake of the head.

"The beast has most certainly returned, sir. It left the dead dog like a trophy just outside the entrance to the village."

"It did what?"

"Not exactly typical behavior for this particular species," Regis remarked dryly.

Before the messenger could ask where the witcher's companion got this knowledge, Geralt raised his hand - a signal to Regis to be silent. This was his business. 

"So your elder thinks I may have made a mistake."

His voice now had an undertone that might well have been a warning to an attentive listener. And so, after a moment's consideration, the young man answered with some caution.

"He didn't put it that way."

"Of course not. But I do not burden you to tell him that negligence on my part would cost not only my head but the lives of many others. I'll look into the matter."

The other nodded eagerly - apparently, this was the expected answer.

"Oh, and the elder said..." he was about to add, but Geralt interrupted him in a piercing voice.

"That I shouldn't expect a surcharge? Well, we'll see about that."

Geralt was already turning to leave down the stairs - he may have just arrived, but that also meant that he was still fully equipped and therefore ready to leave right away. Regis gently held him back by the arm. 

"Shall I..."

Geralt shook his head vigorously.

"I don't think that's a good idea. And it will not last long, I guess."

"Fair enough. In that case, I'll just wait for you - I think we have some things to discuss later."

Indeed we do, Geralt thought, and he would have preferred this to the ridiculous ramblings of a returned ekimma. Whatever was haunting the village again was certainly not this vampire. 

So he set out to solve the supposed mystery. He briefly thought of organizing a second horse from the workers, but it turned out that the villager had never sat on one before, so Geralt had the man mounted behind him. This slowed down their journey and wasn't incredibly comfortable, but it was still better than walking all the way to the village. That was the one thing that gave Geralt a bit of a puzzle. Why sent the young man off and tell him to hurry like that if it was just about a slain dog? It had been the animal of the hunter - and he should probably recognize whether his dog had been torn by, say, a bear.

It seemed strange to think that the dead dog had been deliberately dumped in front of the village. Which wild animal would do that? But equally, he could ask what monster would do that. It was merely puzzling, and he would not figure it out until they reached the village. 

He remembered the settlement - after all, he had collected his reward not so long ago - but back then, the place had been full of life. Now, there were no children playing, no chattering neighbor women, no men smoking outside the front doors. Although it was a beautiful, bright sunny day, there was not a soul to be seen. Everyone was hiding in fear in their houses, as they seemed to be disturbed by the news of the alleged return of the monster.

"I need to see this dog," Geralt said when they had both dismounted - in the messenger's case, with definite relief.

"We left him where he was," the young man replied. 

That turned out to be the beginning of a somewhat wider path that ran through the middle of the place, leading into a small forest about half a mile past the first house. These were the village's actual hunting grounds, which had probably become too small or uninteresting for the villagers at some point. 

In the middle of the path, almost exactly between the first house and the forest's edge, lay the dead dog. The first flies were already buzzing around the carcass. Geralt approached the corpse alone - the messenger meanwhile informed the elder that he had fulfilled his mission.

It was not a pretty sight, and indeed not the work of a bear. It might have left a few claw marks, but it would have aimed at the neck of the other animal to break its neck. Moreover, bears loved to crack open their prey practically at the ribcage, like a nut. This one, though... it was a slaughter of an extraordinary kind. The dog had been one of those massive, stoic breeds, almost more of a guard dog than one trained for the hunt. Now there was not much left of it. Probably his owner had recognized the dog only by the narrow, leather collar that still hung on what was left of the neck. 

The animal had been practically torn into three parts, skinned and disemboweled. Completely drained of blood, it lay there, apparently torn to shreds in a great rage. The attack had taken place right here.   
Whatever or whoever had done this, it had sucked the dog dry and left the remains lying there. 

It was disturbing in several ways. Geralt realized why this must seem to the villagers as if the attacker had deliberately dumped the animal here. However, he suspected that the monster had simply satisfied its cravings on the spot. In any case, it meant that the beast had been very, very close to the village. Possibly it had already been full after this attack; perhaps it had already had its fill before. Maybe it merely saved the other juicy morsels for later. There was no doubt about one thing: this had indeed been a vampire. The smell was still there; it stung Geralt's nose, although the rotting dog almost masked it. It was, besides some other little things, the most apparent hint. He would have liked to believe that another monster had ventured so close to a human settlement, and surely there were those who in pure frenzy mauled their prey in such a way. But there were few who cared so much for the blood that they left only a white, hollow shell of the flesh beneath the torn fur. 

However, this had certainly not been the ekimma that had tampered with the hunting grounds. Of this beast, only ashes had remained. Another vampire would not be so egregiously unusual in Touissaint. Another ekimma would be a rarity, but why exactly here? In Regis's opinion, the other monster must have been a loner, perhaps cast out by others after his vulnerability became apparent. He had theorized that the wound might have come from an older vampire - a kind of pack behavior that led to occasional disputes over dominance. The loser had retreated. As an idea, this was as good as anything else they knew, and in the end, that wasn't much. But what if the alpha animal had now appeared here? Perhaps it had followed the other ekimma, had wanted to finish it off for good, following some instincts that told him that such an abnormality could not be tolerated. That was a terrible thought - especially for the villagers. Their small settlement must seem like a pretty candy box to the vampire. It would certainly return to stick its long claws into it again.

Geralt weighed his options, only to find that there weren't that many. He had to find this vampire, and fast. The afternoon was running out, and even if this particular monster didn't need to hunt only at night, like many of its kind, it preferred the darkness that sharpened its senses. He had to find this vampire, and quickly. For now, the villagers were safer in their homes than if he had evacuated the village - the nearest settlement was so far away that they would have to wander in the middle of the night. He couldn't wait for any ducal guards to accompany them either. The only option was to find the vampire before it struck again. 

Geralt was not comfortable with the idea of facing a possible stronger ekimma than the last one. These creatures were disgusting enough, but the older ones, the alpha beasts, were adamant. He regretted leaving Regis behind; he could have used his help right now. However, the latter's very own moral standards would probably not have allowed him to interfere here either. Yet, Geralt had experienced that Regis could adapt these ideas flexibly. But there was no time to notify him. He had to make do with what he had. 

So he picked up the vampire's trail, tuned out the stench of decay, and focused on the whiff the beast had left behind. It had by no means been as careless as the other - traces of blood would hardly lead Geralt to its hiding place. But the scent, sharp and distinctly filled with copper from the ferrous food, was clear enough. In fact, the blood enriched the smell of the ekimma sufficient to follow it easily. That was good because the trail ran very far. So far, that at some point, it became clear to Geralt that this beast had sought out a familiar territory: it must have descended into the elven ruins where its conspecific had already sought shelter before. The distance was no challenge for the vampire. Still, Geralt cursed himself for underestimating the route and leaving the horse behind. This kind of carelessness, especially in terms of potion supplies, was not like him. He would probably make do with what he had on him, but still: he had run off as if the beast had hypnotized him, even though it wasn't even close. 

It was probably more the magnetizing effect of a completely different vampire that had distracted him, though. The debate that now had to wait. The missed opportunity. Now was the completely wrong time to think about this. Yet, Geralt couldn't help but keep looking up as he marched through deserted fields, wild meadows, and much coveted forest as if to summon a flock of crows. What if the opportunity never came again? If the fight against a vampire, of all things, would be his downfall, and he would fail in confessing to its far nobler conspecific what he felt for him? 

These thoughts were not his style either. He was by far not as cold-blooded as one or the other rumor claimed, but monster was monster, and he knew what to do. Had feelings ever stopped him? No, but he had to admit that feelings had already led him to questionable decisions. He couldn't make such a mistake here - not if he wanted to get another chance to talk to Regis. 

The unmistakable smell led to the underground ruins, and this time Geralt would have to enter them. This time, no surprise attack awaited him, although he was prepared for it - with increased vigilance and some hastily poured potions. Before he went in, he took one last, searching look around. Perched almost in the crown of a nearby tree sat a crow, the only one he had seen in hours. He forbade himself to think of the bird as a last greeting from Regis, just as he suppressed calling something in the crow's direction. 

An unearthly glow greeted him as he entered the ruins, which at this point was nothing more than a half-buried cave. The light came from fluorescent mushrooms and saved him a torch, at least initially. The cave merged almost seamlessly into the remains of corridors that might once have been splendid. The ruins were comparatively poorly preserved - there was nothing left of the former glamour that its inhabitants had cultivated over centuries. Even the colorful mosaics that had once adorned the walls and floors were no longer visible under the dust and dirt of decades. Large parts were buried, others challenging to access. The only thing that was perfectly clear and certain was the smell of the vampire still lingering over everything, which even mold and mildew could not mask. 

The sword had long been nestling in Geralt's hand, and caution guided him as much as professional composure. Finally, he was entirely at peace with himself, one with his task, for which he would hardly reap any recognition from the villagers in the end. But he had no intention of explaining to them at length that a second vampire had taken up residence near them, ready to crack them open and slurp them out like the useful but annoying insects it undoubtedly considered them to be. Geralt sealed an inner vow to carry the beast's head all the way to the Duchess herself and claim his reward. 

The smell grew stronger, and at the same time, another of Geralt's senses kicked in, as if someone had bumped a rock and set a whole bunch of others rolling. He perceived the presence of the vampire, very close now. A steady, stable heartbeat, and he almost believed he could hear the beast breathing. The corridor made a turn, and beyond it, he sensed a larger space - and also a slight breeze, as if there were a second exit there. Cautiously, Geralt peered around the corner. There was indeed an ekimma there. The monster hung from the ceiling like an oversized and rather ugly bat; toe-claws hooked into cracks in the stone. 

It was an old specimen, as suspected: the leathery skin was almost scaly and lackluster, and the wrinkled, triangular head hung limply. It might be old, but that didn't make it any less dangerous, on the contrary. But at the moment, it was asleep, however improbable that might be. Perhaps it had still been hunting elsewhere; perhaps the dog had indeed been a sufficient meal - the ekimma hung on the ceiling, its eyes closed.   
The advantage was almost tangible, and the witcher wasted no time. A sign, skillfully placed, would keep the vampire from dematerializing in the short term. The attack had to be swift, and the sword was ready. It rested in his hand as if it had always been there, a natural extension, and somehow it was. 

The monster's eyes opened at the same moment as Geralt raised his sword, ready for a blow that, at best, could have decided the matter. But he had overestimated the depth of the beast's sleep. He had been fast and infinitely quiet; had almost not heard his own footsteps - but the vampire very well had. Geralt's superior senses might make him an exceptional being among humans, but the instinct of a vampire, especially one so old, was incomprehensible. 

The sign's barrier worked: a transformation was impossible, at least for a short time, and it slowed down the monster's reflexes. But what did that mean to such a creature anyway? Geralt rolled away as soon as the vampire opened his eyes - his instincts worked, too - and so the first blow of the deadly claws came to nothing. In the blink of an eye, the old ekimma grasped the situation, and the sign would not last forever. Geralt put a massive swing into his next attempt - a risky plan because a setback would throw him completely off course. It seemed like a miracle that his blow hit. But the ekimma, though thwarted by magic, managed to spin slightly, so Geralt hit only one shoulder. Now, at the latest, it was clear to the vampire that its attacker was more than an annoying insect. The sword hurt the ekimma as much as the oil spread on it, and again and again the monster stretched to test the invisible barrier. 

Finally, the inevitable moment came: just as Geralt was circling the vampire, looking for a point of attack, an advance of the monster had the desired effect. Now the claws were getting dangerously close to the witcher - and he didn't want to test their ability to cause long-lasting bleeding wounds too closely. But all the ducking and dodging did him little good as the vampire now dematerialized. Geralt cursed; he had missed the decisive moment to renew the sign, and also, the ekimma was faster than he was. With his back to the wall, sword raised, only an all too treacherous gust of air saved him from the next blow, and a daring dive prevented worse. 

The ekimma made strange clicking sounds. Was that some kind of laughter? A ridiculous thought that Geralt could not let himself be distracted by. Still half-kneeling, he quickly grabbed a handful of dust and dirt from the ground and hurled it in the direction where he suspected the vampire was. He was wrong. The vampire was behind him; its smell betrayed him. Geralt turned around, a split second too late. The momentum was not enough - the wily old ekimma was faster, and a mighty blow swept the witcher off his feet and knocked the sword from his hand. He slammed into the wall, and the extended cut in his forearm and a repugnant daze told him he was screwed.   
The sword was out of his reach. The vampire made those strange little noises again, and suddenly, he materialized right in front of Geralt. 

_I imagined that differently_ , Geralt thought with astonishing clarity. He thought of the small house in front of the crop-less vineyard. How the fields shone when the morning sun cast its first rays on them. How the evening sun warmed the little bench in front of the house, even when summer was over. Of who might still be sitting there now, on that bench, waiting for him to come back. Of how he had hoped that this would not remain just a one-time experience. That he would be received like this more often. And that his old friend would now never become more than that. 

Strangely, that very thought mobilized something in him. Already Geralt's hand formed another sign, and if it had been possible to give his rudimentary magic power by emotions as many sorceresses did, his burst of fire would now have arisen from rage. He hit the ekimma square in the face, with its mouth wide open, teeth bared in a sign of obvious superiority. This food was not at all to the vampire's taste, and the sounds it now emitted were both painful and angry. 

The force of the fire had knocked the monster back a bit, and Geralt hastily fumbled for the sword. It was out of his reach, and he could barely get to his knees to reach for it. The air was heavy with smoke and kicked-up dust, but suddenly something else seemed to be in it. If the ekimma transformed once more, he would not be able to stop it. He found it difficult to raise his arm, and whether it would be enough to cast another sign was uncertain.   
But strangely, the air seemed to condense, filled with an odd buzzing sound. No, not a buzzing. A sound of dozens of wing beats that sounded like a single, ominous arrival.

Suddenly the underground room filled with something that didn't belong there - as if this were a dark nightmare, twenty, maybe fifty crows fluttered in. It seemed like a suicide mission - what could birds do against a vampire? Regardless, they began hacking at the monster, and only seconds later purpose of it all became clear. It was a diversion. The air shimmered and finally took shape. 

Regis.

Should the sight have surprised Geralt - or hadn't he been inwardly hoping for this outcome all along? For so many more reasons than just the fight. It was his fight, no matter how it turned out: duty, curse, and fate of any witcher. He was capable of it, and if he made a mistake, or if the monster was superior, there was no cure for it. And yet: to not have to do this alone invoked strange feelings in him. That he had been missed. That he was important to someone.   
This gave him the strength to lift himself. Finally, he found the sword, grabbed it, and straightened up to look around.

In this form, Regis was a sight from people's nightmares. Both vampires were now making hissing sounds as they stood there, claws raised, ready to pounce on each other. Both were still held back by something - on the ekimma's side, it was the apparent surprise that someone of its own kind was interfering. Geralt had no idea what the hierarchy stated. But obviously, the ekimma was hesitating - it might be old, but Regis was superior in many ways. This display of sharp teeth, the raised claws, the tense bodies served one purpose above all: a mutual assessment of who was in charge. But the ekimma had smelled blood, literally. Prey had invaded its territory, and it had begun to hunt. And what a prey - one it couldn't capture easily. Did these creatures enjoy what they were doing? If so, that was one more reason not to miss the tasty catch. 

The ekimma was old, and perhaps it found that it had not much to lose but quite a bit to gain. It attacked, and Regis did not seem to have expected it. Although he dodged the deadly claws with lightning speed, he hesitated a moment too long. What happened next occurred so fast that Geralt didn't even realize it. 

Just a moment ago, the ekimma had remained standing there, waiting, lurking. Then the domination of claws and teeth flared up. The underground walls, little more than a kind of cave that might once have been a hall, shook with the force of the vampires, who were no longer content to circle each other. A tremendous battle erupted, and Geralt found that it was a terrible time to be in the middle of it. Lack of space and blind rage put him in the line of fire time and again, while he, for his part, found no point at which he could have intervened. He realized that he had better disappear, but so should Regis because the fight was close to bringing the room down. Already, many a blow landed in the walls, which cracked alarmingly and sent dust and stone crashing down on him. 

Geralt stood there, pressed against the wall, the sword in his hand again, but it was as useless as he felt. The fact that he had unwittingly forced Regis into this fight caused a dull feeling in his stomach. He had no doubts about Regis or his own abilities, but there was no opportunity to raise them. In this throng of claws and teeth, he would only lose out. 

But in the end, may it have been a coincidence or a wrong move, the same was true for Regis. It happened faster than even Geralt's eyes could perceive - a turn, a lunge, a push. Then, Regis was on the ground, pinned down by the sinewy arms of the ekimma, who knelt over him, wrenching open his enormous jaws in triumph. Geralt was frozen for a moment, filled with a nameless horror whose meaning only became clear to him much later. The feeling passed as quickly as it had come and made way for another. 

Maybe it wasn't an emotion at all; maybe it was just instinct, triggered by the sight of a monster. It was his profession to eliminate these creatures. He protected the world, at least he had once been released into it with this claim. This had proven to be a place that attached little value on him and his protection, as reliant as it was on it. But now his world was here, lying there in the dust under the monster. The only thing that was more than worth his protection. Regis would also be just another monster to the world outside, had it guessed who it was facing. For Geralt, he was everything. 

The thought was so evident in the murky dimness of this place, like a beacon that spurred him on. Geralt obeyed the memory of his muscles, which knew long before him what to do; surrendered to the experience of his body, turned off his mind, and acted. Later, much later, he would try to reconstruct the moment, to try to figure out what exactly he had done, how it had come about that he was suddenly standing next to the ekimma. A blink of an eye, and the beast turned its attention to the pesky insect, the witcher with the stinger. A heartbeat, and the stinger sunk into the flesh. One blink, one stroke. Then it was almost over. The battle, the age - the ekimma was weak now, and what drove Geralt was nothing this lowly creature would ever have understood. 

Eventually, all the resisting was in vain; the heart was shredded, the head a lifeless bundle of blind eyes and teeth without a bite. Geralt turned and saw that Regis had sat up. He gave him a glance that seemed to waver between astonishment and something else. For some reason, Geralt dropped to his knees, looking intently at his companion, who seemed more intact than a fight of this magnitude should allow. He opened his mouth to say something, to ask something, but then there were Regis' hands on his shoulders, and then Regis' mouth closed his. 

His brain recognized the kiss not until the surprisingly cool lips warmed slightly under his own. Everything was quite different from what he had imagined. He got his kiss in the bloody dust, next to the carcass of a vampire, while a very, very different vampire explored his mouth. Very delicately, only the lips lay on his, as if they wanted to make sure. As if they wanted to make sure that he would not repel this sudden, this special kind of attack. 

Yes, it was very different from what he had imagined. It was much better, not only because it was no imagination anymore. The world around him dwindled until only sensations were left. The hands on his shoulders, gentle but determined. The fact that they had both involuntarily closed their eyes as if to shut everything out. The mouth on his, now full of certainty, strange and familiar at the same time. It was all very different, and that was good. It did not matter who put his feelings in this kiss first. It only mattered that it happened. 

Somehow, at some point, Geralt had put his hands on Regis' back, pulling him even closer, and that seemed like the answer to an unspoken question. He felt like this was the first kiss he had ever shared - and in a way, it was. Time didn't stand still, the world didn't stop; and yet everything was brand new and so familiar at the same time. And all of that was just the beginning, that too was in this moment, in this kiss. Two heartbeats that became one. Two worlds that came a little closer to each other. They were simply there, here and now, sharing a moment that seemed to last forever. 

At some point, their lips parted, their eyes opened, and they both looked at each other with that particular amazement that only souls knew who had recognized each other. 

"The remains need to be burned," Regis said. 

Geralt burst out laughing, almost choking on it; there were as much delight and amazement in it as relief. 

"That's the only thing you can think of to say?"

Regis smirked.

"To this unfortunate creature, I'm afraid so," he replied with a sweeping gesture. "As for the rest... sometimes words are too much. And sometimes not enough."

"Explain it to me again," Geralt said. 

And that's what Regis did.


End file.
